My computer starts up with the softest whisper. It's sleek, top-of-the-line, and syncing capabilities that keep everything—my phone, the tablet I carry when I accompany Sandra to shoots and other events, and all the information stored on the computer—in line.
Email is light for a Monday, so it only takes a few minutes to fire off replies. I decline two interviews on Sandra's behalf—they're from publications she's explicitly told me she will never entertain—and answer three queries from editorial and a couple more from different photographers on Basiqué’s staff.
I'm just setting down the phone from the final confirmation call when an alert pops up on my desktop. Manuel is here with the coffee, waiting outside the double doors.
I take the drink carrier from him and hand over five dollars for a tip.
"You got any plans for tomorrow?" he asks.
I look at him, my forehead wrinkling. "Is there something special about tomorrow?"
His eyes go wide. "The Fourth of July! Only the biggest party holiday of the month. Don't tell me you're spending it in the office!”
I hadn't thought about it.
I open my mouth to answer but from the corner of my eye I see a flurry down the hall, people rushing to get to their desks.
Sandra is here.
Chapter 2
Cate
"Thanks so much, Manuel!" I say, my heart already thrumming in my chest. I only just catch the look he gives me as I spin around and head back into the office. It's a look that wonders why I care so much that my boss is in the building. But I have no time for Manuel and his looks now. The coffee has to go on Sandra’s desk and I need to be at the door in thirty seconds at the most.
In three strides I'm at my desk, putting my coffee back behind my computer monitor, and it's another step to the closet, where I tuck the drink carrier into a recycling bin that looks like a high-end laundry hamper. Sandra didn't want a plastic bin in the closet, even though she has a separate one behind the second desk for her coats, so I spent a Saturday finding the perfect alternative.
There's a full-length mirror on the wall next to the double doors, and I take a moment to make sure that my appearance is on the sharpest point imaginable. My ensemble today is Chanel. I picked it up from the dry cleaner on Friday, along with the other pieces that will hopefully get me though this week, as long as I don't have any food catastrophes. That should be easily avoidable. Lunch breaks are an unnecessary distraction.
My hair is piled on top of my head, impeccably dried and arranged in the messy, carefree look that actually takes an hour to achieve. The only thing I need to touch up is my lipstick. It's my signature shade—Rouge D’Armani, No. 103—and I keep a tube of it in my desk at all times. I swipe it on, the movement expert.
Outside the glass doors, people are materializing in the hallway. They're slotted for the first meetings of the day. Some of them don't have appointments until 9:30, an hour from now, but they find things to do in the meeting rooms across the hall, poring over mockups, chatting in low voices to each other over presentation boards.
One meeting room is taken up almost entirely by a group of five of the hottest men you're likely to ever see in your entire goddamn life, and they're dressed in outfits that look like a sexy twist on businesswear. They're here to have Sandra approve the looks for the shoot on Thursday, and two stylists flit around them, adjusting sleeve cuffs again and again, making sure jackets hang just so. One look from Sandra and they'll find themselves making frantic calls to the designers for replacements. The only people who seem entirely at ease are the models. They have the least to lose. Bryce, a blonde, blue-eyed model with All-American looks, catches me looking through the doors and winks.
I give him a small smile. Bryce likes to stop at my desk after meetings and chat, and if Sandra's tied up with a designer, he likes to bitch about work and boys, tell me who stood him up for a date last weekend, who turned out to be a terrible dancer and worse in bed. Those conversations are like pressure valves for my day. I would have cracked months ago if it weren't for him.
For just a second my mind wanders. Bryce has a once-in-a-lifetime body. If he weren't gay, I'd like to take him back to my apartment and strip off that shirt, tug down the charcoal pants, and slide my hand...
Sandra's face on the other side of the glass startles me so much that I jump. I can't believe she caught me off guard like this. I came to the door to watch for the signs of her imminent arrival—the way people's heads turn and then swivel back so they can pretend they weren't watching her like a hawk as she came down the hall.
When my body leaps Sandra's eyes narrow, and then she pulls the door open with her free hand.
“Catherine,” she says by way of greeting. “Cancel my appointments.”